


Rock salt

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Alt prompt: Shot, Blood, Day 10, Rock Salt, Vomiting, Whumptober, field medicine, kind restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Mac gets shot with rock salt.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 24
Kudos: 55
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Rock salt

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!!

Jack is going in the back and Mac in the front when he hears the blast. It’s a shotgun so no chance it’s Mac — the little nerd is carrying a hefty maglite and nothing else. Mac screams, his voice echoing across the comms, followed by a chorus of shouts from HQ demanding to know what’s going on. It won’t do either of them a lick of good if Jack gets shot too, so he breaches from the back like planned and clears the cabin, working his way quickly to Mac.

Over the comms, Jack can still hear Mac moaning which means he’s not dead, but he’s not great either. Jack is pissed and panicked, and he moves quietly up behind the guy who’s looming over Mac with a shotgun pointed at him. Jack grabs the guy and slams him roughly into the cabin wall, his pistol rammed up under the man’s chin.

“Drop the damn gun,” Jack orders and the shotgun clatters to the porch instantly. “Mac, buddy, I need you to talk to me. You gonna make it?”

Mac groans, his breath heavy and wheezing. “Yeah, just hurts.”

“Well, yeah, it hurts. He shot you. It’s gonna hurt. How much of the blast did you catch?” Jack asks, turning the man around and zip-tying his hands. 

“Center mass,” Mac replies, and Jack heart drops into his boots because that means that everything from here on out is just borrowed time.

“Mac-”

“It’s just rock salt, Jack. I’ll survive but it hurts. Might have cracked a rib or two. Knocked the breath out of me,” Mac explains between halting breaths.

Jack lets his head drop forward and he takes a deep breath. “I thought you were going home in a box. Don’t do that again, Mac. Lead with the important info.”

A wheezing chuckle, followed by pained moans is Mac’s only reply. Jack drags the man inside the cabin and flicks on the light. The man is… old. Older than Jack, which if Riley had anything to say on the matter would probably make this guy Methusalah. Jack shoves the man into a chair and zip ties the cuffs to the chair. “Stay, you hear me? I’ll shoot you from across the yard and it ain’t gonna be with no damn rock salt, capiche?”

“Yeah, I hear,” the old man mutters.

On the porch, Mac is still lying flat on his back, tears dripping down the sides of his cheeks. Jack kneels down beside him and takes Mac’s hand in his. “Hey, Mac. You’re looking a little rough, pal. You wanna talk to me?”

Mac blinks. “Pain’s getting worse.”

Worry creases Jack’s brow. “I’m gonna cut your shirt off of you, bud. We’re gonna see what we got to work with.”

Mac breathes and looks up at the cedar siding on the underside of the porch roof while Jack removes Mac's shirt and probes some of the uglier wounds. “None of it looks life threatening, but we ought to dig those bits of salt out of you. You’re gonna get dehydrated and they’re gonna hurt more and more the longer they’re in you. Now come on, let’s get you inside where there’s some light.”

Jack knows that like this there’s no gentle way to get Mac up, so he opts for fast, hauling Mac to standing all at once. Mac screams, doubling over and gagging. Jack does his best to hold Mac steady until he’s ready to move, but it takes a minute for him to regain some semblance of control.

“Easy, bud. Short steps. We’re not going far,” Jack reassures him.

There’s a bed, more like a glorified cot, in the front room of the cabin, and that’s where Jack leads Mac, easing him down to sit. “Alright, bud. I’ve gotta go grab the folding table from out back and get some light on you. Then, we’re gonna get that salt out. You just hang tight.”

Jack’s got the table inside and is gathering some supplies from the meager kitchen when the old man finally pipes up. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. It’s just there’s always these city kids up here and they steal my stuff, break in and tear shit up. I don’t wanna kill ‘em, mind you, but I do want them gone. ‘Course none of them are loaded for bear. What you boys doing up in these parts anyway?”

Jack is still mightily pissed, but he does his best to be civil. “We’re hunting someone for the US government. Dangerous guy. We were clearing the cabin to make sure he wasn’t here before we moved on. Thought it was abandoned.”

The old man sighs. “I’m really sorry. Can I help somehow?”

“Yeah, you can sit there and be quiet unless I need something,” Jack snaps. It’s not totally fair and Jack knows that, but this is Mac and if it had been buck shot instead of rock salt… Jack can’t bear to imagine how different tonight might have turned out. 

Jack checks each drawer in the kitchen one by one, and then goes to the back room where the supplies are all stored to dig around, but there doesn’t seem to be a first aid kit. 

“You got any tweezers?” Jack shouts.

“Nope. Someone stole my kit yesterday,” the man answers.

Jack comes back to the front room. “Wouldn’t happen to have been a weird, creepy guy, super pale, dressed in all black, wears a trench coat?”

The man shrugs. “I didn’t see who it was. Just noticed a few things missing so I went through my supplies — a little food, the first aid kit, a sleeping bag. Not much.”

Jack knows that barring something serious, Mac has his SWAK somewhere on him, and that should have tweezers. He goes over to the bed and squats. “Hey, which pocket do you have your knife in?”

Mac wiggles the fingers of his left hand, and Jack slips his hand in the pocket. Thankfully, the tweezers, the part he always lost second as a kid right after the toothpick, are still in place.

“Alright, looks like I’ve got what I need. You ready to get this show on the road?” Jack asks.

Mac nods. “Please.”

“Gimme a sec,” Jack says, patting Mac’s shoulder. 

He assembles everything on the small card table that their host has and then drags it alongside the larger table, rearranging an LED lantern to cast enough light to see.

Mac watches, tears still seeping from his eyes, as Jack comes back across the room. “Alright, Mac. Up we go.” Jack loops his arms under Mac’s and lifts. Mac’s fingers dig into Jack’s shoulders and he gasps like the breath has been punched out of him. 

He shifts Mac over to his hip, walking them both forward across the room. “Almost there. Keep going.”

“I’m not dying, Jack,” Mac grits out.

“Yeah, by luck. What if he’d had buckshot in those shells? And don’t tell me you’re not hurting because I know you are. Now lemme get you to the table without all this tough guy crap, alright?”

Mac huffs as he sits on the table. “You’re a worrywart.”

Jack turns a glare on Mac that tries, and fails, to be reproachful. “That’s my job title: Worrywart Extraordinaire.”

“Is the ‘extraordinaire’ part because you carry grenades?” Mac asks. 

Jack puts his hands behind Mac’s shoulders and lowers him to the table. Mac shouts, biting off the noise halfway to the table. Jack hates hurting his kid, even if it’s to help him, and he pats Mac on the shoulder before turning around to grab the tweezers out of the cup of whiskey on the table.

“Show time,” Jack announces. He knows Mac’s anxious as a long tailed cat in a room full of rockers, but there’s nothing for it except to get on with it. Jack presses the tweezers into the first wound, and Mac’s hands grip the edges of the table, his teeth gritted tight and eyes closed.

The pellet has already dissolved more than Jack would have hoped and it’s small and slippery. It takes a moment to get a grip on it and pull it out. Already there’s a sheen of sweat on Mac’s face despite the cool fall air. Jack doesn’t pause too long, just long enough to rinse the tweezers in whiskey, and then go after another piece, and another. And another. 

Jack makes it to six before Mac loses the fight on keeping quiet and begs for a break. “Stop, stop, Jack. God.”

Jack drops the tweezers in the alcohol and wipes the blood from his hands on a rag. “Just breathe for me. You’re doing great.”

Mac shakes his head and he opens his eyes to look at Jack. “You’ve done six. There are about fifteen more to go. I am not feeling ‘great.’”

There’s no arguing with someone about how they feel, and honestly Jack can tell Mac feels like shit. “I know; I know you don’t. But all this extra salt isn’t gonna do you any favors. You gotta get it out. Now come on, break’s over.”

Fresh tears roll down Mac’s cheeks as he braces himself for more, and Jack feels near tears himself. This time, Mac can’t maintain his stoic facade, crying out as Jack digs under his skin with the tweezers. He keeps his hands on the edges of the table, but he twists and writhes from the pain as Jack works. He needs both hands for what he’s doing — one hand to hold the skin in place and the other to use the tweezers — but now he needs more just to keep Mac in place. 

“Hey, bud, I hate to say this, but, uh-”

“You’re gonna have to restrain me,” Mac rasps out between too fast breaths. He doesn’t make eye contact, just grips the edges of the table harder until not just his knuckles but his fingers blanche from the pressure.

“Hey, old guy. You still wanna help?” Jack calls over his shoulder.

“Name’s Melvin. Whaddya need?”

“Whatever, Jed Clampit. I just need another pair of hands. Need you to keep him steady while I work,” Jack explains. 

“I was in the Army in Vietnam. I can hold a guy down. Ain’t scared of blood, neither,” he affirms.

Jack walks over and whips out his own knife to free Melvin. “Great, now come on. We got work to do.”

Mac eyes Jack and Melvin as they approach but says nothing to stop them. Jack never likes seeing Mac compliant, especially in the face of pain, and he doesn’t miss the way Mac stiffens when the old codger presses Mac’s shoulders against the table. 

“Not much longer, Mac. Just hang with me,” Jack says, but Mac’s blue eyes are red from the crying and Jack feels like a complete ass, trying to soothe Mac like he doesn’t know exactly how much this is gonna hurt. 

As much as Jack hates this guy, it’s easier to work now that he’s holding Mac steady, and they’re making good time. They’re close to done, when Mac starts to gag. They help Mac lean over the edge of the table while he vomits, dry heaving for another minute before his stomach settles. 

Now that Mac’s just lying there, it’s evident the toll this is taking on him. Before, Jack attributed the shaking to Mac being so tense, his muscles taut and wearing down from the strain. But no, now that he’s relaxed it’s worse. Jack knows that Mac is tough enough to take it, but he sure hates to be the one dishing it out.

“Three more. Here we go,” Jack says. He can’t put it on Mac to say yes because Mac’s hurting too much to make any good choices, so Jack just does what he has to. 

Mac begs, outright pleads with Jack to stop, but Jack doesn’t, not until all the salt is out. Before Mac can see and get worked up over it, Jack grabs the half bottle of whiskey and pours it over the twenty-some-odd holes in Mac’s chest, blood washing away as the amber liquid runs down Mac’s sides, onto the table, and then dripping down to the floor. Mac screams without restraint, a feral cry of agony, and Jack wipes his eyes with the back of his still bloody hand. 

“Easy, I’m gonna wash it off. Just wanted to make sure it was all sterile,” Jack says, and pours some of the water he’d boiled on the stove earlier over Mac’s chest. Instantly, his breathing slows and the animal noises quiet to the occasional whimper or moan. 

“Boy, you sure know how to get the job done,” Melvin comments and Jack momentarily considers shooting the old man with his own rock salt. 

“How about you get to work cleaning up?” Jack replies instead. 

From the front porch, Jack radios in to update everyone, and Melvin stays inside to clean. Jack can hear Mac’s breathing through the old drafty windows, still fast and shallow from the pain they can’t do anything about. Matty confirms an exfil in the morning, and Jack signs off so he can head back inside. 

“Hey, Mac,” Jack says softly. 

Mac’s eyes slowly track to Jack. “Hey, I’m really thirsty. Can I get some water?”

“I got it,” says Melvin.

Jack takes the opportunity to pull up a chair next to Mac and sit down. “I know you’re hurting, but other than that, how’re you feeling?”

“Stupid,” Mac says flatly.

“Hey, hey, you can’t blame yourself for this one. We both thought the place was abandoned and-”

“No, Jack. I don’t blame myself. I just feel… fuzzy, a little slow, like my brain is full of mud,” Mac clarifies.

“Oh,” Jack replies, momentarily derailed from his lecture on the disadvantages of mental self-flagellation. 

“I think it’s the salt pulling the water out of my brain cells. I’ll be better once I pee all this out,” Mac murmurs.

Melvin appears with the water and he and Jack get Mac sat up enough to drink the entire cup. Jack can hear it in Mac’s voice and see it on his face — the kid is tired. Carefully, he scoops Mac up bridal style and carries him to the cot. It’s not really all that hard; Mac doesn’t weigh much more than a buck fifty soaking wet. 

Mac smiles wanly. “Thanks.”

Jack pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it, hoss.” 

He waits until Mac is out, before going outside for a perimeter check, and Jack leaves strict instructions that Melvin is not to shoot him, too. In the dark, once the coast is clear, it’s easier for Jack to take a moment to loosen his grip on his emotions. It’s not some big production, just a couple of tears and a minor case of the sniffles, and then he’s better. He composes himself and finishes up.

Back inside, Mac is still sleeping, his breathing finally deep and easy, and Jack settles in for the night. Tomorrow, they’ll walk out of here to exfil but Jack already knows that Mac’s gonna be fine. He looks at Mac one more time and closes his eyes. Just another day in paradise.


End file.
